


the art of jumping someone's bones

by mysterymistakes



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Background Hilda/Sylvain, Claude Lusting After Hockey Star Dimitri, Dimitri's Giant Dick, Getting Together, Hockey Star Dimitri, M/M, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26260726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterymistakes/pseuds/mysterymistakes
Summary: Claude nods and hangs his head. He’s been defeated, flayed and pinned with his insides exposed like some poor frog in a high-school science class. “You got me,” he concedes. “As expected of you, Hilda.” She laughs, high and tinkling, reaching across the table to pat Claude’s head.“There, there.” Claude looks up again. Hilda’s smile is evil. “Aw, does little Claude have a crush on the big, tall hockey star? Poor little baby wants to get tossed around.” Claude’s retort dies in his throat. There, looking entirely too large in front of the tiny café cash register, is Dimitri.Claude's got a crush, and Hilda wants him to do something about it.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Comments: 12
Kudos: 255





	the art of jumping someone's bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [himboprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/himboprince/gifts).



Claude considers himself to be a rather well-rounded person. He knows he’s smart, that he’s good looking, charming and fun to be around. His wits have taken him far and will push him farther yet. So, when he finds himself faced with a problem, he does some thinking, reflects on his experiences with similar issues, and then tackles it.

There is a single exception to this rule. It is an exception due entirely to his lack of experience in the field of the issue at hand, and so he must reach out and seek counsel from others. He doesn’t like that fact much, but he understands how to cut his losses.

“I don’t know how you thought yourself in this many circles, Claude. He likes you back. Have you seen him, like, looking at you? Ever?” Hilda says, acrylics tapping on the comically large coffee mug in her hands. Claude chokes on his drink.

The problem at hand is that Claude has a crush. A really big one. A really, _really_ big one. So big, in fact, that it consumes his thoughts and his days and prevents him from getting much of anything done because he’s too busy daydreaming. They’re tucked into a corner booth of the campus café under the pretense of doing homework. Untouched books and papers and highlighters run amok on the cheap laminate tabletop, some of which are now lightly dusted with coffee stains as Claude covers his mouth with one palm and makes grabby hands at the napkin dispenser with the other. Hilda rolls her eyes as she plucks a few for him, sliding one underneath Claude’s mug so that his TA session assignments don’t become coasters. “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice. Are you really that dense?” She takes another and dabs lightly at some of the worse spots on the various (poorly scanned and already impossible to decipher) readings. Claude sighs and plops his brown-splotched napkins into a corner between the dispenser and the wall.

“Don’t be mean, Hilda. You know I’m illiterate in…” he waves a hand, “matters of the heart, let’s say.” Claude puts on his best innocent look. Hilda doesn’t buy it. She scoffs, taking a very pointed sip of her chai.

“Matters of the heart my ass, Claude. You have quite the reputation for being fluent in the matters of your dick. Why not use some of that to slide in?” Claude grimaces. It’s true. Somehow, despite there being exactly zero evidence to support it, he’s garnered a reputation for being able to slip between the sheets of anyone he so pleases. He picks his mug back up and takes a long gulp of lukewarm americano.

“I mean, I’d really rather not do that.” He says. “I guess I could. Something about it seems wrong, though.”

“What, the rumors?” Claude nods. Hilda sighs and puts her mug down with a very definitive clink. “Claude, come now. You know well enough that what the rumors say doesn’t mean it’s true. So what if people think he’s a virgin? People also think he has the biggest dick on campus. You do nothing except bemoan your lack of regular dick, hotshot. Besides, have you looked at you? There’s a reason people think you’re out here eating sex for breakfast. And,” she starts to tap her nails on the laminate again, “I have it on good authority that he’s also been looking at you the way you’ve been looking at him.”

“You’re calling _Sylvain_ good authority?” Hilda gives him a look. Claude laughs. “If you roll your eyes too much, they’ll get stuck up there.”

“ _Claude!_ ” She huffs, reaching across the table to swat at him. He dodges and narrowly avoids sloshing coffee directly into his lap. “Even _I,_ his loving and devoted girlfriend, won’t call Sylvain good authority. I’ll concede that much. But he _is_ Dimitri’s best friend, and he cares a lot about the people he’s close to, even if he doesn’t want others to think it.” Her eyes soften, and a small smile pricks at the corners of her lips.

“And we wouldn’t know anyone like that, would we?” Claude jeers. Hilda swats at him again with much less effort.

“No, we wouldn’t, thanks. But I’d trust him on this. I _know_ you’re being a loser about it because you actually like him- don’t give me that look, Riegan. Give me a little credit here.” She takes another sip as Claude pouts. “You do nothing but talk about how smart he is in that class with you. Seteth’s seminar, right?” Claude nods. Hilda gives him a look that says _see?_ “It’s hard to sound smart in one of his classes. Lorenz did nothing but complain about it last semester because he couldn’t figure out how to become teacher’s pet. And, you’ve said that it’s the only class that you think is actually tough, which says a lot.”

“I think I should stop talking to you,” Claude says. “You know too much.” Hilda snorts.

“Yeah, sure sucks to find someone who can keep up, doesn’t it?” She muses. Claude can’t help the grin that worms its way across his mouth. “Anyway. Maybe it’s my flawless intuition, but if it were actually you just breathing heavy at him, you’d have already gone for it.”

Claude nods and hangs his head. He’s been defeated, flayed and pinned with his insides exposed like some poor frog in a high-school science class. “You got me,” he concedes. “As expected of you, Hilda.” She laughs, high and tinkling, reaching across the table to pat Claude’s head.

“There, there.” Claude looks up again. Hilda’s smile is evil. “Aw, does little Claude have a crush on the big, tall hockey star? Poor little baby wants to get tossed around.” Claude’s retort dies in his throat. There, looking entirely too large in front of the tiny café cash register, is Dimitri, followed closely by Sylvain. “What? What are you looking at?” Hilda says, turning around with absolutely no sense of secrecy. “Oh!”

“Hilda, please, don’t-” Claude says, but it’s too late. A loud, upsettingly shrill _Sylvie!_ has already rung across the small space, and both Sylvain and Dimitri have turned around. Sylvain smiles and waves and holds up a finger to say _one sec_. Dimitri, however, is staring directly at Claude, and poor Claude is staring directly back, because _holy shit._ Dimitri looks ridiculously nice. A dark blue turtleneck is stretched tight across his broad, muscled chest, and a perfectly tailored moss-green blazer hangs from his shoulders. His pants, a matching green with the blazer, hit all the right places. They hug his thick thighs and, really, it’s unholy how good they make his ass look. Even his metals are matched. The gold of his belt buckle and the thin chain with a stylized star that hangs between his ( _fucking massive_ ) pecs and all the way down to the eyelets of his shiny black shoes are the same hue. His hair is pulled back into a little half-ponytail to keep it from his face. He looks like he _smells good._ Claude has half a mind to bust past that expensive leather belt and throw away all of his inhibitions right there and then. Sylvain looks alright too, he guesses. Sylvain and Dimitri take their respective to-go cups and make their way over. Hilda kicks Claude under the table. “Stop thinking with the wrong head!” She hisses.

“Hey, guys!” Sylvain says. He leans down to give Hilda a hello kiss. She stays leaning against his hip when he stands and gives Claude a look that says _don’t be dumb._ “You’ve met Dimitri, right?” Claude wants to smack him.

“We have Seteth’s ethics class together.” He says instead. Dimitri nods. God, his hair looks soft. “Are you guys dressed up for game day? It’s the season final tonight, yeah?” Dimitri nods again from behind a long sip of cappuccino- _wait, isn’t that fresh? Shouldn’t that be scalding?_ Sylvain lets out a big sigh.

“Something like that, right Dimitri?”

“Yeah.” Dimitri says. It’s low and rumbly and gets under Claude’s skin. There’s a beat of silence. “Have you done Seteth’s reading yet?” The heel of Hilda’s shoe digs into the top of his foot.

“Can’t say I have,” Claude says, trying very, very hard to keep his eyes from wandering. “You?”

“I did it last night.” _Oh, god,_ Claude thinks. _He’s responsible, too._ “It’s really long. He’s going in hard on these scriptures.” Dimitri grimaces a little bit, and _of course he still looks good making faces,_ “They’re really tough for me. I always feel like an idiot in that class.” He reaches a broad hand up to scratch bashfully at the back of his head. Claude thinks that the distance between Dimitri’s pinky and thumb could span his whole stomach.

“Really? I don’t think you’ve ever sounded like an idiot. Seteth’s wholly convinced you know what you’re talking about. Have you taken a class with him before?” Dimitri shakes his head. “Oh, man. He’s one of those professors that makes sure you know that he knows what he’s talking about. It takes a _lot_ for him to say you’ve asked a good question. One of our friends spent the entire last semester trying to squeeze a single compliment out of him and it didn’t work at all.” Claude laughs, shifting to yank his foot away from Hilda before the bone gives out.

“Oh,” Dimitri says, looking determinedly at his perfectly generic, entirely unmarked coffee lid. “Thank you. That’s very reassuring, especially coming from you.” There’s the tiniest blush dusting across the top of Dimitri’s nose. It’s a miracle that Claude doesn’t drop to his knees right there. Instead, he grabs his mug to give his shaky hands something to do other than pulling frantically at Dimitri’s clothes.

“Anyway,” Sylvain says, looking smug and bemused and _no wonder Hilda’s dating him,_ “I’m guessing that Hilda’s dragging you along tonight?”

“You know it. She says I have to be her space heater since you’re not available. Hope you don’t mind.” Sylvain snorts good-naturedly.

“Not at all. What about the afterparty? We organized it,” Sylvain waves a hand between himself and Dimitri, who is still contemplating the plain white lid, “so it’s actually going to be good.”

“You talk a big game for someone who starts crying after three shots, Sylvie.” Hilda says. Sylvain turns a color similar to his hair. Claude and Dimitri burst out laughing, the uncontrollable and uproarious kind that makes the whole café pause conversation or pull out an earbud and look at them. Dimitri practically glows. The apples of his cheeks are rosy, his nose is scrunched up and his eyes are shut with tears gathering in the corners he’s laughing so hard. He’s smiling so, so wide, and it makes Claude’s heart feel like it’s going to pop straight out of his ribcage and fall on the floor at Dimitri’s feet. Crushing on someone sure is a lot of trouble.

Sylvain’s phone buzzes. “Ah, shit. Sorry guys, but we have to go get our stuff and head to the rink.” Dimitri takes a step back. If Claude didn’t know any better, he’d think him sad to leave. “Meet us at the locker room after the game, yeah?” Sylvain kisses Hilda goodbye, and off they go.

“Hate to see him leave but love to watch him go.” Sighs Claude. Hilda hits him with an essay.

The next few hours pass in a blur. They watch the game, which ends in a crushing victory (Claude very much does _not_ spend the whole time wondering what it would be like to get tossed around by Dimitri, who slams aside people far bigger and stronger than Claude is like it’s nothing), and find themselves loitering by the trophy case just outside the locker room not long after. They congratulate players as they exit, and eventually it’s just Dimitri and Sylvain left in there, so Hilda barges right on in and wrinkles her nose at the smell.

“Dude, just _ask him,_ it’s not that big a deal. He’ll say yes, I swear- oh! Hey guys! How was it from the stands?” Sylvain waves. Claude doesn’t super know what happens after that.

Dimitri is sitting on one of the lattice-metal benches in the middle of the room in nothing but a pair of well-worn grey sweatpants and his gold necklace. He’s glistening with sweat and humidity from the showers, like he’s had oil spread across his chest and all down his arms. The turtleneck from earlier didn’t do it justice. He’s _broad_ and _defined_ and _muscular_ and Claude wants to _jump his fucking bones_. He tunes back in when Sylvain and Hilda are heading out. Claude becomes very acutely aware that it’s just the two of them.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you later, then?” He says. He starts to turn, because he is a polite member of society who waits until after the first date (that he’s not sure will ever happen) to do any sort of bone-jumping, but Dimitri stops him dead in his tracks.

“Actually,” his voice is low and a little bit gritty from yelling during the game, “I, uh.” Claude didn’t know that anyone over six foot and built like a superhero could look like a lost puppy. “I was wondering if you’d. Um.” Dimitri breathes in deep. Claude takes a hopeful step towards him.

“If I…?”

“If you’d like to go to the afterparty with me?” He looks at Claude so earnestly, like a schoolboy asking his first crush to the Valentine’s dance, not a college junior asking an acquaintance to go to a sports party. Claude can feel his cheeks burning red much the way Dimitri’s are.

“Yes,” Claude says, and swallows hard, because his mouth tastes like cotton and _Christ, Claude, get it together, it’s not like he proposed to you,_ “I’d like that a lot.” The smile Dimitri gives him is blinding.

“Thank goodness. I. You. Um. You look very nice.” Dimitri says, looking Claude up and down like he’s a meal. Maybe Hilda had been onto something with the five-inch inseam shorts.

“Thank you,” and then, despite his heart feeling like it’s about to beat out of his chest and the nervous excitement knotting in his gut, “so do you.” Dimitri goes flaming red. Claude is standing right next to him now, his leg a hair’s breadth from Dimitri’s knee.

“Forgive me if this is too forward,” Dimitri murmurs, looking at Claude’s lips, and Claude thinks he might burst out of his skin, “but may I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Claude crashes down onto him. Their mouths meet in a tangle of teeth and tongue, wet and hot and open in the middle of the locker room. God, it’s _euphoric,_ every little sensation running through Claude like a live wire and coagulating in a hot mass in the pit of his stomach. Dimitri groans beneath him, his hands coming to hover by Claude’s waist, just shy of grabbing him until Claude presses them into his sides. His earlier suspicions prove to be right. Dimitri’s hands are enormous, almost big enough to wrap the whole way around Claude’s middle. It spurs him on. He runs his hands up Dimitri’s firm arms, feeling the muscle as he goes, and in a moment of particular bravery, Claude breaks from the kiss to swing himself lengthways across the backless bench. He swings a leg over the bench to straddle it the way Dimitri is, and then sets himself down in Dimitri’s lap.

“Hi,” Says Claude.

“Hello,” Says Dimitri. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are red and slick. “I should shower.” His hands don’t move from where they’re locked around Claude’s waist. Claude shakes his head. He grinds his hips in a teasing circle. _Maybe bone-jumping is okay._

“I like you like this.”

It snaps something in Dimitri. His fingers dig into Claude hard enough to bruise, and he surges forward into another searing kiss. Claude’s arms find their way around Dimitri’s neck. They continue like that, swapping spit like it’s the last thing they’ll do, until Claude feels something hard pressing against his ass. Something hard and _big._

“Forgive me if this is too forward,” Claude says, and a smile tugs at the corner of Dimitri’s kiss-swollen mouth, “but can I ride you?” Dimitri blinks. Claude bites his lip.

“Here?”

“You can say no,” Claude goes stock-still on Dimitri’s lap. “But yes, here. Right now.” Dimitri’s hands slide down to palm Claude’s ass and coax a shiver from him. “What say you, big boy?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Dimitri breathes. He slips his hands below the waistband of Claude’s shorts to really _knead_ the swell of his ass. His hands are calloused and grip deliciously at his skin. Before long, Claude’s shorts are on the ground, and Dimitri is three fingers deep. Claude shivers against him, stretched wide and fucking _full._ Dimitri thrusts his fingers shallowly, but he presses on Claude’s prostate with every pass to make him shake and drool.

“I’m- _mmm, ah, Dimitri,_ I’m ready.” Claude moans into Dimitri’s ear. He’s never felt so empty as when Dimitri’s fingers slip from his hole. He fumbles for the bottle of lube somewhere behind him with one hand (Dimitri had pulled it from the depths of his bag and muttered something about Sylvain being right) and pulls out Dimitri’s cock with his other.

It’s huge. It’s so fucking big. Claude quickly makes peace with the fact that he may well die here, in the middle of the locker room, fatally speared by Dimitri’s dick. It’s no wonder that Dimitri had been so insistent on working him loose. Dimitri’s head falls back with a deep, reverberating groan when Claude takes him in hand.

“Lay down,” Claude says, breathless. “I meant it when I said _ride you._ ” Dimitri nods fervently and tips back. Those wonderful hands come to rest again at Claude’s waist, holding him as he lines himself up. The head of Dimitri’s cock presses against Claude’s hole. They groan in unison as it slips past Claude’s rim. He sinks down on it slow, fucking himself a little farther each time, supporting himself on Dimitri’s firm chest. They both just sit there, panting, when Claude bottoms out.

“ _Claude,_ ” Dimitri groans, “you feel too good… I’m not going to last long.”

“Me neither,” Claude bites out. It feels like his orgasm is being squeezed from him, like there’s no room in his body for anything other than Dimitri’s cock.

Claude starts to move. He rides Dimitri like his life depends on it. The wet sound of skin-on-skin mixes with their moans and echoes filthy through the room. They finish together (in a frighteningly short amount of time, but Claude’s fine with it, since it gives him an excuse to _build up stamina,_ or something like that), Claude staining Dimitri’s chest and his own shirt and Dimitri spilling into Claude. They lie atop each other, sticky and sated, only dully aware of their surroundings and their relative peril.

“It may be a bit late to say this,” Dimitri says, running a hand through Claude’s damp hair, “but I, ah, I very much like you, Claude, and if you’d let me, I’d be more than happy if you’d join me for dinner sometime.”

“Why, Dimitri,” Claude says, planting a kiss to his sternum, “I’d be glad to.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading, and thank u to the commissioner! 
> 
> i can be found on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mysterymistakes)


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